


To Have and to Own

by hellions



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Captivity, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Defiance, Drugging, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25372633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellions/pseuds/hellions
Summary: Somewhere along the way, Morvran Voorhis became fixated on Geralt of Rivia. Obsessed. Hungry. Desperate to possess him. Geralt finds out about that obsession in the most painful and humiliating way he could imagine: Morvrandoescome to possess him, and has some ideas of how to make the unwillingly abducted witcher want to be his.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Morvran Voorhis
Comments: 19
Kudos: 105
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CariadWinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CariadWinter/gifts).



> Treat for Nonconathon 2020. 
> 
> This draws heavily on the "rape to claim ownership of victim" and "victim forced to enjoy rape" prompts, along with a defiant victim being overpowered by drugs and magic, abducted by an obsessed rapist, and held captive while bound. This also includes rape to try to convince the victim they want to be possessed by the rapist. The Dead Dove: Do Not Eat tag is very much at play here.

Everything fades in and out a couple times, blurry and dark around the edges, before Geralt finally regains consciousness. He's lying on his side with something soft under him, and from what he can make out through his fucked up spatial awareness, he's in a closed room and several feet from at least two walls. He's also a couple feet above the ground, and putting it all together, it seems like he's on some kind of bed. It stretches out far in front of him, the room dark and ornamented, so whoever owns this place is rich. Geralt's head aches and his mind's foggy and his skin is sickly cold with nausea and only the weakness in his whole body keeps him from convulsing with the strength of it and vomiting on the spot. He feels like he does after a night of chugging bottles of White Gull in Kaer Morhen, but twice as bad as he ever has before. 

"Fuck," Geralt groans, and his voice comes out hoarse and almost inaudible. His throat is worryingly raw. He mutters, just to make sure his voice is still working, "Feels like somebody drugged me." 

"There's a very simple explanation for that, Geralt." The voice coming from behind him has a tone and confidence that feels familiar, but as hazy as his head is, Geralt can't place it until he processes the accent: Nilfgaardian. Sure enough, he watches through still blurred vision as the Alba Division commander himself comes to stand in front of him, with that combination of sun-etched leather tunic and heavy gold chain and dark rimmed eyes and ponytailed orange hair he'd know anywhere - Morvran Voorhis. "Somebody did." 

"General." Geralt grits his teeth, both against the nausea that rises up in his throat and the anger brewing in his chest. He and Morvran might be on vaguely friendly terms - or so he thought - but he doubts he's ended up here because the conniving noble wanted to nurse his hangover. Powerful Nilfgaardians don't work that way.

"Please, call me Morvran." The disconcerting man - Geralt's always thought he looks disconcerting at the best of times - looks over Geralt with that same strange combination of smugness and impassiveness he gets sometimes. He seems satisfied with what he sees.

This is when Geralt realizes he's naked. 

Geralt glares at him the best he can, with his eyelids so heavy. "What did you do to me, Voorhis?" 

"Did you not listen? Well, technically it was not _I_ who drugged you, but the explanation stands." Morvran feels like he's looming over Geralt as he continues to look down at him with those slightly sunken eyes. "I suppose you can be forgiven. The drug was powerful, as I'd expect from a mage of the caliber of the one I employed to craft it. But your mind will clear soon, since I want you to be present for what I have planned for our time together." 

Geralt feels a sudden wave of cold hit him, and it's not just the nausea. He keeps his rough voice even as he replies, "And what exactly would that be?" 

"Geralt. There is no fun in skipping the anticipation," Morvran says, the hint of joviality in his voice - the same one he used to invite Geralt to join him in a horse race - now sinister. "You will find out in due time." 

Morvran turns his back to Geralt and walks to a table pushed against the wall within his sightline. With Morvran's eyes no longer scrutinizing every moment of weakness, Geralt tries to sit up. He discovers his ankles are bound together with several loops of a thick rope, and his wrists are tied in front of him the same way. Struggling into a kneeling position on the mattress feels like fighting his way out from under a boulder with how drained he is and what a deadweight his body feels like, and by the time he gets himself upright, he's breathing hard and unsteady from the dizziness swirling up his pounding head and fighting the heaves of his stomach. 

"Think I'd rather not," Geralt says, once he's sure that talking won't bring anything up. 

"Unfortunate. You aren't being given a choice." Morvran doesn't turn around, and whatever he's handling on the table clanks in a way that throbs in Geralt's sensitive ears and makes him flinch. "I hope you aren't going to tell me you'd rather not stay. You aren't being given a choice in that either. Not when I went through so much trouble to get you." 

Geralt doesn't like that. Nilfgaardians wanting to get their hands on him has never ended well. "Emperor want something from me?" 

"No. I do." Morvran returns to the bedside, a whole armful of clanking things making deafening noises with every step of his booted feet that make Geralt want to grip his head and groan until they stop. Between the lingering drug effects and his mutation heightened hearing, he can't bear them. "Or, perhaps, the better way to phrase it is, I want _you_." 

Geralt narrows his eyes, the harsh metal noises still ringing behind them. "Starting a freak collection?" 

"Geralt. Don't talk down to yourself." Morvran's voice would be some sick facsimile of sympathetic, if Geralt didn't know the man isn't capable of even faking sympathy for others. "I have no need for a collection. You are the only one I want. And I could never want anyone else, now that I have you." 

"Have me for _now_." Geralt tries to pull his wrists apart, then his ankles, struggling to break the rope. But whoever picked it out accounted for his witcher strength, because it's too thick and strong to slip even the slightest bit. He thinks for a second that maybe he could manage to cast a sign or two, send Morvran flying with an aard and sacrifice a bit of skin to burn through the ropes with an igni, and feels a little dark smugness knowing Morvran thought of everything but was still dumb enough to tie his arms in front of his body. Until he realizes, there's no way in hell Morvran would be. Geralt's fingers have all been bound together, making it impossible to form signs. Still, even with the increasing sense of trouble he feels, he's not going to admit helplessness. "Think a witcher can't get out of a couple ropes?" 

"No. I wouldn't underestimate you." Morvran dumps the armful of metal on the edge of the bed, and this time Geralt can't do more than muffle the low noise of agony at the sharp spike of pain through his head. Morvran picks up one of the items, and it takes Geralt a couple seconds to focus his vision enough to figure out what they are. Metal shackles. But not just any shackles. Dimeritium shackles. Geralt knows in that moment he's fucked. "Ropes, you could escape. But not these." 

Geralt glares at him again, and this time it's more powerful than the last time. "I wouldn't put those on me, Voorhis." 

"Of course _you_ wouldn't." Morvran looks amused at his own joke. His extensive combat training is obvious in the way it takes him mere seconds to snap the dimeritium shackles onto Geralt's wrists and then unravel and toss away the rope so there's no barrier between his skin and the metal. Sluggish as Geralt is from the drug, even his witcher reflexes couldn't make him move that fast. "I understand they're not pleasant." 

Geralt's wrists burn the second the metal touches the skin, pain flaring up at every place of contact and the flesh sizzling and blistering and redness making its way up his entire arms. He lets out a yell as the burning spreads through his whole body for a moment, writhing and jerking, before it recedes to let him feel intense nausea and a gripping wave of terror. He can physically feel the magic draining out of him, his energy sapped out with it. The feeling of his power being channelled away leaves him feeling empty on a visceral level, something so horrifying he could never explain it in words. Geralt doubles over forward and dry heaves and pants for breath and yells again before toppling onto his side on the mattress, eyes rolled back in his head. Even as the initial reactions fade, the emptiness remains. 

"I assure you, Geralt, that gave me no pleasure." Morvran's voice has that twisted imitation of sympathy again, and it makes Geralt want to spit at him. "However, it was a necessary precaution. I was understating things when I told you I'd gone through significant trouble to get you." 

"Why." Geralt's voice is cracked from yelling. 

Morvran lets out a quiet chuckle. "Because I had to have you." 

Geralt keeps his eyes closed. He doesn't understand. He knows he needs to understand, but he doesn't want to. He thinks that might be because he already knows what Morvran means. 

"You fascinate me, Geralt. You have fascinated me since the moment we first met." The edge of the bed dips with weight, and Geralt drags his sore eyelids up to see Morvran sitting there, looking down at him with something in his eyes that hasn't been there the other few times they've crossed paths - hunger. Intense, deep, all-consuming hunger. Geralt wonders how long Morvran's been controlling it. "A man who calmly answers interrogation questions with a blade to his throat, wearing nothing but a towel. A man who asks the Emperor's inner circle about the internal workings of the Imperial Court, unafraid of the consequences that come with curiosity. A man who beats me at a horse race after asking me at length about my equine knowledge, and then choosing the most difficult to handle steed available. A man who proves himself capable of hours of banter witty enough to make a long journey pass by swiftly. At first, you merely interested me. The infamous Geralt of Rivia. And then I found myself thinking of you often. The more we met, the more frequent those thoughts became. Until, finally, I knew I would go mad if I did not sate my need for you." 

"Would've taken a lot less words to say you got obsessed." Geralt's voice is sarcastic, but the rest of him is filled with dread. There are few forces more powerful than a man gripped by obsession. "What kind of need would that be?" 

"A complex one. To put it simply, I require stimulation from you." Morvran keeps looking at Geralt, and as he speaks, the hunger intensifies. Geralt already gets where this is going, and he doesn't like it. "Conversation. Inspection. Physical contact. Carnal pleasure." 

Geralt wishes he wasn't right. "You're going to rape me." 

"You Nordlings use such blunt language." Morvran's voice is casual. "I do plan to indulge myself in you sexually. I would be pleased if you were a willing participant, but I'll satisfy my desires regardless." 

"I'm not willing." Geralt twists his ankles and tugs on the shackles again, even as the friction of them makes his wrists burn again. He growls. 

"Ah, well. A disappointment to me, but as I stated, what you will concede to matters little." Morvran gets up and comes to stand by Geralt's side, and Geralt is so drained he can't put up more of a fight than a weak wriggle when Morvran puts an arm under him and another over him and pulls him up, turning him onto his front so he's hunched over his knees with his forehead against the mattress. Geralt leans against it and pants, his whole world swirls of dizziness and illness and pain. After a moment to adjust he manages to brace himself on his elbows and forearms, trying and failing to keep pressure off his shackled wrists. When he first leans hard on them, the skin bubbles and blisters further. Even with the dimeritium removing Geralt's ability to use magic Morvran left his fingers bound, another display of his complete control over the witcher. "I will have you however I please. Though I hope, in time, you will come to enjoy it." 

"Never gonna enjoy you _raping_ me," Geralt snaps, refusing to let Morvran use that typical weaselly language nobles love to use to soften what he's doing. 

"Any mind will submit to the will of another, given enough time and enough motivation, whether punishment or pleasure. But your body will submit first." Morvran doesn't look bothered by the way Geralt's teeth are bared when he turns his head to look at him. "You are experienced in many kinds of pleasure, Geralt. I have heard you partake of them often. I am experienced as well, and I am confident your body will respond to me." 

"Doesn't matter what my body responds to." Geralt turns his head away from Morvran again, gritting his teeth. "Body's different than _me_." 

"But once your body experiences the pleasure I can bring you, your mind will understand why you should give yourself fully to me." Morvran's boots fall heavy on the floor as he walks around Geralt. "I have heard much about the sexual appetite of witchers, and how frequently you require outlets for it. I think you will find that being in the care of someone who can fully sate you is appealing." 

"Think you can sate me?" Geralt snorts derisively. "You look like the kind of guy who can't last more than two minutes." 

"Appearances are deceiving," Morvran replies, unaffected by Geralt's taunting. "And I am disappointed by how little you expect from me. I am capable of variety, even creativity." 

Morvran picks up another item from the pile of metal on the edge of the bed, and Geralt instinctively flinches, expecting it to be dimeritium again. Mercifully, it doesn't appear to be. Geralt's endured a lot of torture, but there's something so uniquely terrible about that draining feeling that he's not sure he could take another round of it, even knowing there's nothing left for it to sap. The thing Morvran's got is a long metal bar with shackles on either end, and he takes it around Geralt to stand behind his feet. Geralt twists to see what Morvran's doing, even that motion difficult with how weak and hard to maneuver his body is, and feels a flash of adrenaline when Morvran pulls his long dagger out of its sheath and brings it up to the soles of his feet. 

But all Morvran does is saw through the ropes binding Geralt's ankles, and Geralt knows this is his chance. He can use this. Or, he could, if his body would fucking move. Between the drugs and the dimeritium and the pain, Geralt's so sluggish and weak that he can only kick out at Morvran with too little force to cause damage and not enough coordination to connect anyway. The commander grabs the flailing limb and spreads Geralt's legs, clipping each ankle in a shackle so the bar keeps them wide apart. Keeps his ass, and what's between its cheeks, easy to access and exposed. Morvran tugs Geralt around to face the wall, and uses the last metal object - a length of chain - to attach the dimeritium cuffs around his wrists to a ring set into the wall. Geralt wonders dimly how long Morvran's been planning this. 

"You Nordlings are not known for your cleanliness," Morvran says, voice far too emotionless for somebody who's just prepared their restrained kidnapping victim to be raped and then chained him to a wall. "But you don't need to worry about that now, since I will keep you clean. Another thing you will come to appreciate about being in my care." 

"Care." Geralt scoffs. "That what you Nilfgaardians call captivity?" 

Morvran doesn't answer, and Geralt hears him walk away to pick up a few more things from across the room. He doesn't try too hard to pick out what they are by sound. He's not sure he gives a fuck anymore. Unless it's keys to all these cuffs and Morvran plans to free him with an apology and a _have a good day_ , it doesn't matter. He's trapped. He has no strength and no magic and no mobility and no hope of anyone saving him. Maybe, given time, he can get himself out of this situation. Maybe not. Right now, he doesn't have that luxury. So he might as well accept this is going to happen. Unless he gets blessed with a miracle or a change of heart by a man with no heart, Geralt's going to be raped by Morvran fucking Voorhis.

And isn't that just a stab in the gut. 

The things Geralt doesn't give a fuck about turn out to be a bucket of water, a bar of soap, and a stack of cloths. He squeezes his eyes shut against the humiliation and flexes all his muscles and tries his best not to look like the defeated and helpless thing he is as Morvran bathes him. Geralt's been in a lot of humiliating situations, but he's not sure any of them have been as completely demeaning as being hand-washed by a man who's captured him and is cleaning him up to rape him. He tries to mentally detach himself from what's happening as the soapy cloths run over every part of his body, over every surface and in every crevice. But Geralt can't pull his mind away from the careful washing of his limbs, his torso, his back, his hands, his feet, his genitals, his ass, and the entrance to his hole. Even inside it. It's so thorough and gentle that, if Geralt didn't know this was being done by Morvran Voorhis, Nilfgaardian noble and commander of the infamous Alba Division and the man who's so obsessed with him that he drugged him and kidnapped him and tortured him into submission and restraint, he'd think it was being done by someone who loved him. 

By the time Morvran is done soaping and rinsing and drying him, Geralt's the cleanest he's been in weeks. 

"You clean up well, Geralt," Morvran says, his voice satisfied, like washing a bound man was an accomplishment. "It's a shame you don't often do it for yourself." 

Geralt bares his teeth again, even though Morvran's now walking away from him and can't see them. "A little busy slaying monsters and saving fair maidens to scrub myself all fresh and pretty for rapists." 

Morvran sighs from across the room, and something glass clinks on wood. "I see you're still intent on using that word. I find it lacking in nuance. I would prefer _pleasurer_ \- it acknowledges what I intend to do, but makes no judgment regarding whether the recipient of the pleasure is reluctant or not." 

Geralt lets out a harsh and bitter noise, something that's almost a laugh at how fucking unbelievable it is that this despicable scum of a man is still trying to use those slimy noble tactics to deny his monstrosity even at this point. "Reluctant's a pretty weak word for it." 

"Soon, reluctant will be strong. I'd wager it's much sooner than you think. " Morvran returns to Geralt's side and leans over to hold the object where he can see it. It's a vial of lubricating oil. The expensive stuff, of course, because some rich Guild of Merchants fuck like Morvran wouldn't lower himself to using the cheap lubricant a witcher usually has to. The sight of it makes the part he's known was coming feel very immediate, and that makes it feel very real, and Geralt barely restrains a full-body shudder. He's been pushed into sex before, been made to perform sexual acts he didn't want to do, but the oil makes it clear that Morvran's definitely planning on something Geralt's never had forced on him before. He's taken a cock in his ass consensually, enjoyed it enough that he'd do it regularly if the opportunity presented itself, but he's never had one forced into it. Geralt's had blades stabbed into him, claws slash him open, things slide directly into the spaces between his internal organs, and he feels like none of those intrusions would feel as violating as an unwanted cock buried deep inside his ass. 

In a sudden last ditch burst of strength Geralt rears up and yanks hard on the chain binding his wrists to the wall, letting out a ferocious yell as he tries to break the dimeritium shackles or the length of chain or yank the ring out of the wall, but it's pointless. He's too weak. All he gets for his trouble is more burning and more blisters and more pain and nausea and agony. All he does by fighting is make things worse for himself. 

Morvran doesn't comment as Geralt slumps forward, completely drained, limp and panting for breath and resigned. Not giving up, because witchers don't give up, but a good witcher knows when a strategy has failed and it'd be pointless or self-defeating to keep trying it. Morvran merely uncorks the vial with a soft popping noise, and then Geralt can hear the slick sound of oiled fingers rubbing together. 

"The horse race," Geralt says, still catching his breath. "You said you'd beg me to join you. Seems like a lot has changed." 

"You of all people should know," Morvran replies, "that a lot of things can change when you have a good mage on your side." 

Morvran spreads Geralt's cheeks wider apart with one hand and places a slick finger against his hole. Geralt clenches hard, refusing to make this any easier for Morvran even if he can't do much else to fight. But Morvran's long finger is just as insistent as Geralt expected it to be, and it's soon all the way inside him. The way Geralt's clenching down on it is only making the intrusion hurt worse, so since it was clear from the start it was never going to actually stop Morvran, he loosens the muscles. He hates that it feels like surrender. 

"Good," Morvran praises him, keeping his finger still like he's being considerate enough to let Geralt adjust to it. As if anything could be considerate about penetrating Geralt against his will, and as if there would be any way he could adjust to it. Getting something forced into his ass feels as terrible as Geralt thought it would, just as violating as he expected. And makes him want to vomit until his body's empty of every organ and drop of blood to be _praised_ for having this inflicted on him. As if he had any fucking choice. As if he'd actually choose this if given the opportunity to refuse. "Very good, Geralt. You see that it's wise to make this as easy as possible for both of us." 

"Only thing that'll be easy for me is snapping your fucking neck when I get the chance to," Geralt growls out. 

Morvran says nothing, just slips another finger into Geralt. He's at least oiled them up enough that the entry is smooth and frictionless, even if the stretch hurts. Geralt wonders how much Morvran's going to stretch him before entering him. How thick Morvran's dick is. How long. How much it's going to hurt. If it's going to feel even more violating than his fingers. How long Morvran's going to fuck him for. How much his ass is going to hurt afterward. How torn apart he's going to feel, and in how many ways. Geralt closes his eyes where his forehead is resting back down on the mattress again. The only thing he doesn't need to wonder, the only thing he knows for sure, is that he won't enjoy this. No matter what Morvran says. 

Morvran's fingers begin to move in and out of Geralt, and he clenches his teeth so hard he can feel them grind, wanting to twist away from them but knowing that it won't make them go anywhere. It's so uncomfortable he wants to yank on his chains again, to see if maybe this awful feeling will be enough to push him to overcome the drugs and the dimeritium and the weakness and break loose. But right when Geralt's seriously considering it, Morvran changes the angle of his fingers a few times until - fuck. _Fuck_. 

The jolt of pleasure shocks Geralt. Disgusts him. Sickens him. He lets out a sharp breath before he can catch himself, and Morvran chuckles. Morvran is a man who likes to win, and who likes to be right. And they've both just discovered he _was_ right about Geralt's body. "See, Geralt, there you are. I told you I could make this good for you." 

"Don't care if you give me the orgasm of my life, nothing could make this _good_ ," Geralt says, through clenched teeth.

"I'll try to give you the orgasm of your life regardless." Morvran keeps his fingers at the same angle, with the same amount of pressure, as he fucks them in and out of Geralt at a steady pace. Geralt has to fight to keep his breathing even, despite the way he can't keep his heart rate from speeding up. It's not good, it's so far from good, but it feels good to Geralt's body. Not to Geralt, but undeniably to his body. Geralt tries not to feel the physical pleasure, tries to focus on the disgust and the threat and the revulsion and the sickening feeing of being invaded in such an intimate way, but then Morvran slides a third finger into Geralt and the pleasure sparks so sharply that his mental control dissipates. Geralt hates himself for slipping. Hates himself for failing as a witcher by losing control. 

Geralt clenches again, trying to still Morvran's fingers, but between the generous amount of oil and the force being used to keep them moving, all it does is increase the pressure of them against the places Geralt doesn't want - Geralt's body wants - Geralt _doesn't want_ \- them. Geralt unclenches again. Surrenders again.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" Morvran says, and he sounds so smug that Geralt would shatter every bone in his body with his mind in a second if that was possible. "You know now you can trust me." 

Trust him. The thought is a fucking joke. Geralt _never_ trusted Morvran. But despite that, this still feels like a betrayal. 

Morvran keeps fucking Geralt with his fingers the same way until he abruptly speeds up his pace, and Geralt is fighting gasps and moans at the pleasure. As if that's not enough he changes the angle and the pressure a little more, stroking at the inside of Geralt's walls until Geralt's hips jump and then massaging that spot, so precise and firm against his prostate that a strangled moan finally rips free of Geralt's throat. Morvran couldn't have picked a better way to break him. Geralt likes being fucked, but he likes being fingered most of all, exactly because of this. How painfully, overwhelmingly accurate it can get. Geralt writhes, trying to get Morvran's fingers away from the place that feels best, tries to get them to somewhere they aren't pleasing his body so much because he doesn't want to feel pleasured by this. He doesn't want this to feel good, and he knows it's not his fault it does, but he doesn't want Morvran to be right. He doesn't want to live knowing that the most humiliating moment of his life proved Morvran fucking Voorhis right. But at least Morvran will be dead wrong about one thing, forever - this won't be good for Geralt and he won't like it, right until the very end. 

Even if Morvran does give him the orgasm of his life. Makes him come curling his toes and screaming. Which he might.

Morvran couldn't pick a better way to break Geralt than making any part of him enjoy this. 

Morvran reads what Geralt's trying to do and lets out that chuckle Geralt's growing to hate more than anything, stilling Geralt's hips with a strong grip and then putting his fingers right back where they were. Geralt chokes out a long and shaky breath, losing his ability to control his breathing entirely as the pleasure comes in strong waves now. Morvran fucks him hard and firm, dragging his fingertips forcefully against his prostate, and Geralt can't fucking believe the person who's figured out how to fingerfuck him the best he's had in his life is Morvran Voorhis. His fucking rapist. It feels horrible, so goddamn horrible, to know he'll remember thinking that forever. But Geralt finds himself spreading his legs as far as the spreader bar and shackles will allow and squeezing his eyes closed, and _fuck_. He makes another vain attempt to get Morvran's fingers away from that overwhelming place, gets stilled with that rough grip again, and fails. 

Geralt has his face buried in the mattress now, his back arched, ass up, fighting the moans that rumble in his chest even as he fights to keep them from coming up into his throat. Witchers don't cry, but if they did, Geralt might want to sob. He hates this. He fucking _hates_ this. His body is enjoying it so much, and fuck, he hates it. He hates the intrusion, the disgust, the shame, at all of this: getting drugged, getting captured, getting overpowered, getting bound, getting bathed, getting fucked, and nearing orgasm after all of that. _Because_ of part of that. 

"Hope this was worth it to you, Voorhis. Because when I get free, I'll kill you. Know that. I _will_ kill you." Geralt snarls it out, but regrets it, because his voice is raspy and hoarse and the words keep catching and shifting into something like moans. 

"Luckily for us both," Morvran says, "you will never get free." 

Right after Morvran says that, he rubs firm and fast and hard against Geralt's prostate just right, and pleasure flashes white and crackling and overwhelming through Geralt's mind a moment before it hits his body. He's swept away as his body jerks and writhes and it leaves him unwillingly rocking against those torturous fingers and crying out through the orgasm. His mind is gone, lost to the excruciating pleasure rushing through his cock, and to the feeling of absolute and utter despair. 

When Geralt comes back to himself, he's on his side on the bed with harsh breaths racking his sore body. He's shaking, and he feels detached from his body as a numbness sets in. His belly is covered in his own cum, and his eyes are watery beneath his closed eyelids. 

"Wonderful, Geralt. You reacted so beautifully," Morvran says, and Geralt can hear the hunger in his voice. He sounds positively _ravenous_. "I told you that you would begin to see I am right so much sooner than you thought." 

"Don't care what it takes. Don't care how long. I will kill you, Morvran Voorhis," Geralt says, and he can't stand how his voice is quiet and broken. 

"Always so fiery. That's one of the many things I like about you. It will make it all the more satisfying when you give the rest of yourself over to me. I have your body, and I will have your mind." Morvran's hand caresses Geralt's cheek gently, even as his voice sounds like he could gleefully tear Geralt apart and eat him. "You are _mine_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By request: an epilogue!

Morvran keeps Geralt drugged. Not as drugged as the first few days - he meant it when he said he wants Geralt to be aware of what's happening - but drugged nonetheless. A century as a witcher got Geralt used to living in pain and discomfort, so he gets used to constantly feeling dizzy and ill with his aching head foggy every time he wakes up from his substance induced stupor. Morvran never tells him what's in the liquid he pours into Geralt's mouth, or the suppository pills he uses if Geralt doesn't feel like being good and swallowing the potion, no matter how many times Geralt asks.

Geralt never gets used to feeling so weak, though. And he never gets used to feeling so deeply, horribly empty with his magic drained. 

Morvran treated the burn wounds on Geralt's wrists and then wrapped the dimeritium shackles in a soft fabric so they'd stop burning his skin. He told Geralt it was _a reward for being so good_ , and Geralt told him to keep his fucking salves and silk. He told Geralt he _doesn't like seeing him needlessly uncomfortable_ , and Geralt told him to fucking let him go then. Morvran ignored his growls as he massaged medicine into the blistered flesh, then left the fabric wrapped cuffs on because it's clear he doesn't dare to take them off and give Geralt his magic back even with his fingers bound. And he can't risk Geralt regaining any of his physical strength. 

Geralt sees the way Morvran looks at the shackles sometimes, though. Deeply longing, like he wants to take them off. But he won't take them off until Geralt's fully given himself over to him. Until Geralt is broken. And Geralt knows that's the part of the cuffs coming off Morvran's looking forward to most - Geralt being broken. Some sick, twisted facsimile of _willing_. 

Geralt's possibly more trapped than he's been in his entire life, and the worst part is, it's a situation that shouldn't be so hard to get out of. It's not harsh and painful. He's not locked up in a secure dungeon in a cruel king's castle, or trapped under boulders in the cave lair of a hungry monster. He's in a luxurious bedroom in the hands of someone who adores him. 

One day, Morvran brings a collar for Geralt. It's thick and sturdy, made of a fine leather engraved with Nilfgaard's Great Sun emblem and some Nilfgaardian words. When Morvran translates the phrase for him Geralt snarls and curses at him, but Morvran puts the collar on him anyway. That's the first time Morvran fucks him, since he's spent the past - Geralt doesn't know, he's drugged half the fucking time and there are no windows in the always dim room - focusing on Geralt's pleasure, seeing if he can get Geralt fully convinced of what he's been insisting this whole time: that being cared for by him is so good Geralt will come to appreciate it. Morvran still doesn't have Geralt's mind, but he has Geralt's body completely. Geralt hates what Morvran does to him, dreads every single second Morvran spends touching him, but it always feels so good that his body has begun to respond as soon as Morvran puts a hand on it. 

"I've wanted to take you like this for so long. It was hard to resist doing this sooner. But I'm a patient man. I wanted you for a long time before I got you, and you were worth waiting for." Morvran strokes a hand up and down Geralt's side, with Geralt on his hands and knees still chained to the wall at the end of the bed. Morvran's voice is low and pleased from the way he's entered Geralt and is staying there motionless inside him for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of being sheathed deep in the round and muscular ass he's been lusting for. His obscene groan when he first slid his oil slicked cock into Geralt's tight hole is still echoing in Geralt's mind, nauseating him. The whole thing is so sickening Geralt almost vomited when he felt that first intrusion, just as horribly violating as he expected. 

Morvran leans down and murmurs close to Geralt's ear, "This alone is worth everything it took to get you. You should feel good, Geralt. I would have done _anything_ to have you." 

When Morvran pounds into him Geralt grits his teeth and tries not to moan, but still feels himself writhing and breathing raggedly at the pleasure and the feeling of the engraved leather collar rubbing against his neck with every thrust:

_Property of Morvran Voorhis._


End file.
